#Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader

[lqveharrington]

Just One Smile | F.W.

summary: fred weasley was always trying to see you smile. even for just a second.

pairing: fred weasley x malfoy!reader

includes: imprisonment, draco going through hardships, crying, cursing, small bit of angst, mainly fluff, fred being the best boyfriend, kissing

a/n: i’m so busy for the next couple of months 😭

When you graduated Hogwarts, the last thing on your mind was your father’s imprisonment. You knew he was doing horrible things for the Dark Lord and he got the strict punishment for it. However, you were not onboard when they suddenly chose Draco to replace your father. Draco was merely sixteen when your aunt suggested he become a Deatheater.

You were heartbroken at the development — even more so when Draco came to your room and cried in your arms right after he received his Dark Mark. He said it burned.

Unfortunately, the visit to Diagon Alley — the one place you and Draco loved to visit — wasn’t any better.

Many shops you used to enjoy as a kid had closed and the only lively place was Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Everything else seemed ransacked or broken into, and it terrified you. The impending war already began and you knew it would be for the worse. Even Narcissa Malfoy found herself holding her children’s hands tightly when they entered Borgin and Burkes.

The Deatheaters were to give Draco his task regarding the Vanishing Cabinet, but you simply couldn’t bear the thought of your baby brother being broken down into pieces of the boy he once was — it was torture. Before anyone else could regard your presence, you slipped out of Knockturn Alley and hid in the shadows of Diagon Ally.

You tipped your head back on the brick wall and simply existed. You listened to the soft wind blowing through the broken signs and the clacking of hurried feet across the bricked road. Your eyes were shut as you thumbed the engravings of three simply words on your necklace before releasing a tired sigh.

With your father in Azkaban and your mother in shambles about the entire situation, you were in charge of caring for Draco — and Merlin knows that boy could be stubborn. All you wanted to do was run away from the mess the Dark Lord created and completely leave the wizarding world, but you could never do that to your mother and brother. You could never leave him.

Taking another shaky breath, you composed yourself and entered Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. You prayed that the store would ease — distract — your mind for at least a few minutes before your mother would come find you.

And distract it did.

There were fireworks going off at every corner and the displays were so colorful you swore you were in a children’s coloring book. There were little kids running around moving staircases leading up further into the store and students testing out products that would surely get them out of class.

You only just missed a Gryffindor trying out a portable swamp. You would’ve thrown a fit if the muck got on your clothing — your aunt Andromeda gifted you the black dress for your birthday.

Tucking a strand of your platinum blonde hair behind your ear, you snuck past the love potion display and headed up the stairs, gaze glued onto a product you were a victim to many times.

Flashback: Year 3

“Why do you spend all your time trying to impress Malfoy? You know their entire family hates us.” George rested his head against his palm as he watched his twin set up an elaborate prank down the end of the dungeon hall. “More importantly, she hates you.”

“She does not!” Fred protested and settled beside him, string wrapped around one hand on his. “Besides, I just want to see one tiny little smile from her — that’s all.”

George rolled his eyes and patted his brother on the back, “Whatever you say, Freddie.”

He knew that setting dungbombs on you was not going to make you happy, but George wanted to see his twin crash and burn after your wrath. It was truly going to be a sight to see; The Slytherin Princess cursing out the Joker of Gryffindor.

Fred shoved a hand to his brother’s shoulder before peering over the half wall to spy on the students leaving the Slytherin common room. It took him weeks to memorize your schedule, and he knew Fridays were the days you would head out to the Black Lake to read.

Why willing spend your free time reading when you could do anything else? We go to a magic school, for Godric’s sake. Fred thought before shaking it off, eyes locked on your approaching figure.

Unfortunately, Frederick Gideon Weasley was about to catch you after the worst week of your life.

You were walking with your godfather when a fog of green consumed your every being. A horrid stench filled the air as you began to wave your hand in front of you face, eyes watering from how pungent the scent was. The green muck colored your blonde hair and your perfectly pressed clothes were wrinkled from how abrupt the attack was.

Snape waved his wand over the hall and scanned the growing crowd of students, piercing eyes scouring for guilty faces before scoffing. He pulled you with him and headed straight for the horrified twins he found hiding behind the stone wall.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor. Each." He glared at the Weasley boys and confiscated Fred's leftover dungbombs. "I will be owling your mother and Professor McGonagall will determine your punishments. For now, I expect you both to apologize to Miss Malfoy this instant."

You looked away from the red-haired boys, refusing to show how vulnerable you were at the moment. You were supposed to be composed and poised, but they always made your life difficult. Perhaps your father truly was right about them.

George apologized quite quickly — he knew he wasn't at fault here. On the other hand, Fred ran his fingers through his hair and met your eyes, his own widening at how cold they were. You were on the verge of tears, yet you looked like you were going to murder him.

"I'm so sorry, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—"

You shook your head and pointed a manicured nail to his chest, your grey eyes practically red. "Stay away from me, Weasley. I don't know what you and your brother have against me, but I swear to Merlin this is the very last time you prank me or my father gets your muggle obsessed father fired."

Leaving a gaping Fred and George, you whipped around toward the Slytherin common room and stayed there for the rest of the day. Snape rolled his eyes at the two boys before taking his own leave — presumably to McGonagall's office.

"Bloody hell." George rubbed his face and shook his head, eyeing his brother. He didn't know what he was thinking, but the stupid look on his face meant another stupid idea. And their pranks were rarely stupid. "What are you thinking about now?"

"How to apologize correctly."

End of Flashback

Shaking your head at the memory, you placed the colorful box of dungbombs back on the shelf and wandered across toward the stained glass window. The colors reflected their logo — purples, yellows, and oranges sticking out compared to the darkness of the current state of Diagon Alley.

More students ran behind you as they chased one another with fireworks, their shouts occupying the space. One student grabbed a Pygmy Puff and rested it on their shoulder, smiling brightly at the pink creature before running after the rest of the students.

You smiled at how joyful it truly was in this store. No matter who walked into the store, you were sure a smile instantly appeared on their faces. Turning your attention back toward the beautiful window, you noted the different shapes taking place.

Your finger traced the intricate details on the colored window, smiling at the stars decorating the edges of the logo. The stars were so messy compared to the rest of the window and you knew it was his personal touch to the logo. Especially the oh-so familiar constellation your middle name came from.

Flashback: Year 6

The Yule Ball was as entertaining as Professor Kettleburn teaching about Flobberworms. Intriguing at first but boring by the time you got to handle the actual event itself. You didn't even have a proper date because Draco or your father didn't approve of any of the men asking you. Instead, you went with a family friend from Durmstrang. But it couldn't be worse than Draco's date. He ended up taking Pansy Parkinson because he was so invested in all the different men asking you he forgot about his own date.

How pathetic.

By the end of the Yule Ball, you were already long gone. You found yourself climbing the stairs to the astronomy tower and clinging to your shawl at how frigid the air was when you made it to the top. Luckily, the sky was perfectly clear — just how you liked it when you wanted to find constellations.

You always made it your job to find your family's stars and constellations whenever you had the time, and tonight was no different. Instantly, you found aunt Andromeda's constellation, aunt Bellatrix's star, uncle Sirius' and uncle Regulus' bright stars, and your own constellation.

Right as you found your brother's dragon, you picked up on heavy footfalls ascending that staircase. You pulled your wand out only to find yourself releasing a breath of relief. If it were anyone else climbing those stairs, they would have found themselves stuck up here until someone came to counter the binding curse.

"You looked quite happy with your date." You murmured and wrapped your fingers around your necklace, allowing him to join you on your right. "Angelina Johnson?"

He hummed and looked up at the stars, "She thought I was Georgie when I asked her. Granted, I didn't think she would go with me."

"Mhm." You tilt your head to the left and gaze at his face, his features practically glowing underneath the night sky. "Did you want to ask her? To be your date, I mean."

Fred crossed his arms over the railing and met your curious stare, biting back a smile at how gorgeous you were when you didn't have to uphold your family's status. "No."

"No?"

"No." He cleared his throat and conjured a piece of parchment with a wave of his wand, unfolding the crinkled note. "I wanted to ask my dear girlfriend to the ball, but it seemed like her brother was out to get every male she encountered."

You rolled your eyes and rested your head in your palm, tucking a loose piece of blond hair behind your ear. Draco was out to get everyone for the last two months and you were glad he nor your father knew about you and Fred. It would cause an uproar between both families.

"What's that?" You gestured to the parchment in his hand, eyes gleaming with curiosity when he handed it to you. On the inside of the note, there was a messy drawing of the Lyra constellation. Each star did not look like a star, but you appreciated the effort. "When did you make this, Weasley?"

"Meant to give it to you with your Christmas Present." Fred shifted around his spot to lean back on the railing instead, keeping you in his eye line. He narrowed his eyes when you cracked the smallest smile, "What are you laughing for?"

"M'not laughing." You tuck the parchment away and school your expression. "It's just... Your stars aren't stars."

He gasped and clutched his heart in a dramatic fashion, making it seem like he was about to fall off the tower. "You wound me, princess. I worked hard on making that drawing for you."

"Well, I love it either way." You pat his chest and melt in his arms when he pulls you in, his lips kissing your forehead in an affectionate manner you were never used to. "Maybe I should put you up for drawing lessons if your Weasley products are coming out of your designs."

"George designs all our products," He countered and thumbed your green dress, the silk touch rival to the softness of your hands. "I'm merely the genius behind all charms and potions."

You hum and lace your hand with a free one of his, letting him sway the both of you to the nonexistent music. You weren't exactly sure when you stopped loathing Fred after his horrid pranks toward you, but you wouldn't change the outcome. Sure, you had to hide your entire relationship from everyone — everyone except George — but you were sure it was going to be alright eventually.

"I expect to see that brilliant mind of your displayed in a store then."

"Expect it soon." He grinned and leaned down to capture your waiting lips. "Our shop will be displayed for everyone to see, even your dear father and brother."

End of Flashback

You were so enthralled by the added constellation that you didn't notice the looming presence behind you until a voice spoke up, spooking you. Your heart was racing when you heard your name fall from the person's lips only to find the person you hadn't seen in months.

"I've been waiting for you to visit, princess." Fred crossed his arms and leaned on the shelf beside him, waving his hand to redirect a staircase toward the other side of the room, leaving the both of you isolated on a small platform of the store. "How are you feeling?"

"So tired." You whispered before wrapping yourself in his familiar hold, burying your head in his chest. "Nothing good has happened since you left, Freddie."

"I heard about your father." He murmured and ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry."

You scoffed and shook your head, eyes drawn to his crooked lapels. Straightening out his suit, you smoothed your hand over the front and curled your other hand lightly around his mustard colored tie. Despite everything going on, you attention to detail was always on. "Don't be, he deserved what was coming for him. I'm more worried about mother and Draco."

Fred nodded and scanned over your face. It was rare for him to ever worry about you — you were always so independent — but right now, you needed all the love an reassurance. He could see all the stress taking a toll on you. The makeup you wore did little to conceal the dark spots underneath your eyes. Most likely, you were in charge at home. With Lucius in jail and Narcissa worrying about her baby boy and husband, you had to handle all other affairs.

"Do you need a second away from all the chaos?" He gestured to the office a few steps away, lacing his hand with yours. "I can take a short break to hang around."

"I just needed a second away from the impending war outside." You muttered and flattened your hand over his heart, counting the beats per minute. "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes does help distract the mind."

"It does." He smiled down at you, earning a weak grin back. "Oh, come on. Let me see a big smile."

"I don't have one in me." You sigh. No matter what you did, the happy memories you had locked away in your mind wasn't enough to conjure a pure smile. You don't think it would be enough to even create a simple Patronus.

Fred kissed the back of your hand and watched your eyes light up at the simple gesture. "Just one smile, princess."

"Fred—"

"Please? I want to see if the former Slytherin Princess can still smile for the former Gryffindor Joker. Even for a split second." He murmured, pulling you closer to him until there was no room for movement. Tilting his head down to accommodate your height, he met your glossy eyes. "What?"

"I missed you." You admit and peck the corner of his lips. "Nothing at home can ever replace the feeling I get when I'm with you..."

"I think you missed." Fred tapped his lips with a singular finger, a mischievous grin replacing his innocent smile.

No matter your shared history with him, he would always be the prankster you met your first year. The same person your father warned you about since your birth. The memory of him pranking you in his third year haunted Fred like a ghost, but his apology made those ghosts disappear and hopefully — even if he didn't know the extent of your home life — he could make your ghosts disappear.

You narrow your eyes but make no move to correct your miscalculation, teasing him ever so slightly. "I don't make mistakes, Weasley."

"Sure, you don't." He dipped you and captured your soft lips with his, catching you by surprise. Hell, he even swallowed your gasp before you allowed yourself to get lost in his gesture. When he pulled away, he caught your bashful smile and tinted cheeks. "There we are."

"I feel like you broke some company conduct, Weasley." You put a hand over your mouth like you committed a crime, cheeks reddening by the second.

He shrugged, "I own the company."

"Fred." You gently smack his chest, earning a chuckle from him. Glancing at the huge clock behind him — each character that was displayed on the numbers representing a person in the Weasley family — you silently curse and separate from him, leaving one last kiss to his lips. "I have to go before mother realizes I completely left her side."

"Owl me when you can, princess." He squeezed your hand and sent you one last smile before you wandered out of the store.

Fred Weasley may have been an enemy from the beginning, but he was everything you could ever hope for. Especially when he could get a simple smile to grace your lips despite everything you have ever been through.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[un-creativename]

Yule Ball

┈┈・�� ✦ ୧・┈┈

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

It was the year 1994, almost four months from that dreadful day at the Quidditch World Cup. Almost four months since she broke things off with Fred after one too many comments from his mother about her and her family.

“What a coincidence seeing you here, Malfoy.”

Clearly, Fred Weasley did not get the memo.

“Coincidence?” She repeats as she raises an eyebrow in a mix of annoyance and suspicion. “The castle has seven stories and yet I’m expected to believe our meetings are pure coincidence?”

“Like I said, coincidence.”

The cocky smirk on his face should’ve aggravated her but after a year of their secret little tryst, she’d reluctantly grown fond of it. But she wasn’t naive by any means, Fred was as cunning as a Slytherin most times—a statement that he very quickly feigned offensive to when she mentioned it. There was no way he kept finding her on accident.

“How do you keep finding me, Weasley?”

“I have my ways,” He grins with a shrug. “But that’s besides the point, what’s this I hear about you hanging out with Pucey? I thought you didn’t socialize with your former affairs.”

Now that piece of information she wasn’t surprised he’d known about, not when most eyes were on her due to the Yule ball being just weeks away. “I’m speaking to you, aren’t I?” She mutters as she attempts to move past Fred.

As she tries to walk away, Fred swiftly blocks her path with a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. “Oh come on now, you know I’m different from him,” he teases as he moves to stand in front of her. “You actually love me.”

As they stood in front of each other, she felt a mix of frustration and longing wash over her. Fred seemed to have a skill at getting under her skin, despite how hard she fought to keep herself in check. She’d taken the plunge into a relationship with him early in their fifth year, something she didn’t or rather couldn’t find in her to regret.

“I loved Pucey.”

Fred's gaze softened slightly, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. He knew her well enough to sense when she was putting up walls. “Right,” he drawls, not at all convinced by her response. “Is that why you broke up with him after three months of being together? Because if we do that math, love, we were together for almost seven months more than you and Pucey. Wonder what that must mean?”

She rolls her eyes, trying to mask the way her heart skips at the reminder of their secret rendezvous. “It means you’re insufferable and persistent, Weasley. But now that’s over, so it’s high time we move on, don’t you think?”

Fred's jaw tightens at her words, his usual playful demeanor slipping for just a moment. "Move on?" he echoes, taking a step closer until she can feel the warmth radiating from him. "Tell me honestly, Malfoy, have you managed that yet? Because I haven't.”

His words hang heavy in the air, and she finds herself unable to look away from his eyes. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that she hasn’t seen since they broke up the day after the World Cup. She’s desperate to ignore the heartache that passes through her. “The Yule Ball is weeks away, it’s the perfect chance to move on. For the both of us…”

Fred's expression hardens at her words, his hands clenching at his sides. "Right, because that's exactly what you want, isn't it? To watch me take some other witch to the ball while you go with someone daddy dearest picked out for you.”

She flinches at his words, the truth in them stinging more than she'd care to admit. "That's not fair and you know it," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No, what’s not fair is that you broke up with me without even giving me a chance to defend you against my mum’s accusations.”

Her breath catches in her throat at the raw pain in his voice. She wants to tell him that it wasn't just his mother's words that drove her away, but the crushing realization of how doomed their relationship really was. The thought of watching him defend her against his own mother, potentially fracturing his family relationships, had been too much to bear.

She closes her eyes briefly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. "I couldn't watch you lose your family over me. We both know how this story ends – a Malfoy and a Weasley, it's like some tragic tale waiting to happen. We would’ve broken up eventually…”

Fred's hand suddenly shoots out to grasp her wrist, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes. "So you're telling me you'd rather live with 'what-ifs' than fight for us? That's not the fierce witch I fell in love with." His words hang in the air between them, heavy with unspoken emotions and possibilities.

“Yeah well, that witch you fell in love with has a family filled with blood supremacists. So forgive me if I didn’t think we’d last for much longer anyway. So, please—and you know I don’t say that often—just let me go.”

The silence between them stretches, heavy with unspoken words and shattered dreams. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, “If that’s what you want, fine—but don’t expect me to pretend I don’t still love you when I see you at the ball with whoever your dad chose.”

୨ ✦ ୧

The Great Hall was decorated in its finest Christmas splendor, ice sculptures glistening under the enchanted ceiling. Her burgundy dress robes swished softly against the floor as she danced with Robert Hoglund, a Durmstrang student her father had chosen for her. She couldn’t help but scan the crowd, inevitably landing on a head of ginger hair. Fred was dancing with Angelina Johnson, his usual cheerful smile in place, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. When their eyes met across the dance floor, she looked away quickly, tightening her grip on Hoglund’s shoulder. The music swelled around them, but she barely heard it over the thundering of her own heart. As Hoglund led her through another turn, she caught a glimpse of Fred whispering something in Johnson’s ear, making her laugh.

She forced herself to look away, reminding herself that this was how things had to be. The weight of her family name felt heavier than ever on her shoulders as she continued to dance with Hoglund, mechanically following the steps she’d been taught since childhood. Each twirl seemed to move her further away from what her heart wanted, but closer to what was expected of a Malfoy.

“Miss Malfoy?” Hoglund called in his thick accent, pulling her from her thoughts. “Would you like to take a step outside? You seem…distracted.”

She forces a polite smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fresh air would be lovely, yes,” she responds, allowing him to lead her towards the entrance. As they walk, she can’t help but feel Fred’s gaze burning into her back, and she silently curses herself for still being so aware of his presence.

The cool night air hits her face as they step out into the courtyard, providing temporary relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. She takes a deep breath, trying to clear her mind of the ginger haired twin. Hoglund stands beside her, maintaining a respectful distance that annoyingly makes her miss Fred’s casual invasions of personal space even more.

Hoglund clears his throat, drawing her attention back to him. “You know,” he starts with hesitation, his accent thick with uncertainty. “I can tell your heart isn’t in this. Perhaps we should call it a night?” The suggestion, though politely delivered, carries a layer of understanding that makes her relax.

She nods, feeling a mix of relief and shame at his perceptiveness. “Thank you for understanding,” she manages, her voice barely above a whisper. As Hoglund bows and turns to leave, she catches a flash of movement near the entrance to the Viaduct courtyard, and she hates the way her heart stutters when she recognizes that familiar silhouette lingering in the shadows.

Fred steps out of the shadows, the moonlight catching his features in way that makes her unable to look away from him. His dress robes are slightly disheveled, his bow tie loose around his neck. “You had me worried for a second there, Malfoy. What’s a bloke too think when the witch he loves leaves a ball with another guy?”

She stares at him, her heart racing at his sudden appearance. “You should be with your date,” she whispers. The moonlight casts shadows across his face, making it harder for her to maintain her resolve as she takes another step towards her.

“She’s more interested in George, which is great for me, I’m more interested in blond Slytherin witches anyway.”

She hates the way her heart flutters at his words, once again putting her mind and heart at war. “Must you be so persistent?" she asks, wrapping her shawl tighter when a cold breeze blew past, trying her best to feign annoyance though she’s sure he doesn’t believe her.

“You love me for it,” Fred replies, taking another step closer until they’re merely inches apart. His fingers brush against her arm, and she can’t help but shiver–though whether from the cold or his touch, she’s not entirely sure.

Her gaze flickers down to his lips before she can stop herself, fully aware of the twitch of a smile he does when he notices. “Freddie,” she whispers, his name a warning and a plea all at once, but he’s already leaning in, his forehead resting against hers. In this moment, with the distant sounds of the ball fading into the background noise, she finds her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble a lot faster than she would’ve hoped. “Why’re you so hard to get rid of?”

“Because you’re impossible to forget,” he murmurs against her lips, his hands coming up to her face. “And clearly you don’t want to get rid of me yet, you would’ve hexed me by now if you did.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her resolve weakening with every passing second. The familiar warmth of his touch, the sound of his voice so close to her–it was all becoming too much to resist. Before she even realizes what she’s doing, she’s tilting her head up, closing the gap between them as their lips meet in a kiss that feels like coming home.

Time seems to stand still in this moment, the world around them fading into nothing but background noise. His hands thread through her hair, careful not to disturb the intricate updo she'd spent hours perfecting, while her fingers grip the lapels of his dress robes. When they finally break apart, both slightly breathless, she can see the familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

“Fancy a trip to the Room of Requirement? Because personally, I think a certain Princess owes me a dance.”

She can’t help but laugh, the sound mixing with distant echoes of the ball. “Contrary to Draco’s behavior, Malfoys aren't really royalty,” she says, but she’s already reaching for his outstretched hand.

Fred’s grin widens as he tugs her closer. “Well you’re royalty to me,” he says, pressing a quick lingering kiss to her temple. “Now come on, I’m owed a dance after bravely watching you dance with some Durmstrang git for over an hour.”

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

©un-creativename : All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

Don’t forget to reblog and like

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

[magical-reid]

Shadows and Sparks

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Prompts: 11: “I’ve never felt this way before, and truthfully it scares me. But, the idea of never trying scares me even more.”

20: “I could see the worst parts of you and still think you are the most beautiful person I’ve met.” 

Summary: When the eldest Malfoy sibling forms an unlikely bond with Fred Weasley, she finds herself questioning the life she was raised to uphold. Amid late-night confessions and quiet moments of honesty, the two navigate a fragile but undeniable connection that defies family expectations.

The air was sharp with cold as you pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, your gaze fixed on the dark expanse of the Forbidden Forest far below. The Astronomy Tower was the perfect refuge, away from the expectations and whispers that followed you as a Malfoy. But tonight, it wasn’t the solitude that brought you here—it was him.

Fred appeared like clockwork, his messy red hair a beacon in the moonlight. He was late, as usual, but his grin was so boyish and carefree that it chipped away at your irritation before you could even speak.

“You’re late,” you said, arching an eyebrow as he strode toward you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jacket.

Fred shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that insufferably charming way. “I wanted to give you some time to miss me properly.”

You scoffed, but the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed you. “Arrogant prat,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms over your chest.

He chuckled, the sound echoing in the vast space of the tower. “Ah, come on, you know you’ve missed me.”

You didn’t respond, but your lips quirked involuntarily. There was something about him, something that made it hard to stay angry. It wasn’t just his humor or his careless charm, though that was certainly part of it—it was the way he seemed to see you for who you were, not for who you were supposed to be.

He didn’t push you for an answer, instead settling beside you with uncharacteristic silence. It was one of the things you’d come to appreciate about Fred—the way he knew when to let his usual theatrics fall away, leaving space for the quieter, more vulnerable moments you were still learning to share. There were no jokes or jabs tonight, just him sitting there, looking out at the stars.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft but insistent.

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of your cloak as you tried to steady your racing thoughts. “I’ve never felt this way before,” you admitted softly. The confession caught you off guard, and you had to swallow hard to push past the tightness in your throat. “And truthfully, it scares me. But the idea of never trying…” You paused, your voice faltering. “It scares me even more.”

Fred tilted his head, his gaze fixed on you, the playful spark in his brown eyes dimmed to something deeper. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, like he could feel the weight of your words.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared too,” he said, his voice low. “But if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s you. You’re worth it, Y/N.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Fred’s Perspective

Fred had never been one for fate. He believed in the here and now, in the chaos of life, the messy, unpredictable moments that made everything feel real. But standing there with you, watching the moonlight filter through the tower’s windows, he couldn't help but feel like something bigger than coincidence had brought him to this point.

“I could see the worst parts of you and still think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve met,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You turned to him with wide eyes, your expression caught between disbelief and something else—something he didn’t want to name just yet.

“You don’t mean that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a faint tremor betraying the calm front you tried to maintain.

“I do,” he said firmly, his hand brushing against yours as if to prove his sincerity. “I’ve seen you angry, I’ve seen you guarded, and I’ve seen the way you soften when you think no one’s looking. And none of it—none of it—has made me feel anything less than this.”

His words hung between you like an unspoken truth, one that shifted the very air in the tower. Fred wasn’t just talking about attraction or infatuation; there was something much more honest, much more enduring in his gaze. He didn’t care about the icy walls you’d put up, or the reputation that clung to you like a shadow. He saw something real beneath it all.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The years you’d spent building up the walls, keeping everyone at arm’s length, seemed so fragile now. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but there was no bite to the words, only a tentative fondness that you weren’t quite ready to admit.

Fred smirked, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand, a silent promise in the soft touch. “And yet, here you are.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s Perspective

The words hung in the air, thick with emotion. You had spent your entire life being the perfect Malfoy—poised, unyielding, untouchable. The Malfoy legacy had always loomed large, a constant weight on your shoulders. You’d been raised to uphold a reputation of power, to walk the line between cruelty and grace, to be untouchable. But with Fred, none of that mattered.

He didn’t see you as a Malfoy. He didn’t see you as a Slytherin, or Draco’s older sister, or the heir to a family steeped in dark history and expectations. He saw you for who you were, a girl with fears and doubts, someone just trying to find her way in a world that had already decided who she should be. And it terrified you.

For once, you felt as though the person you were at this very moment—stripped of the masks, the judgments, the bloodline—was enough. Fred didn’t look at you with the disdain you had grown used to, the questioning glances, the whispers in the halls.

He was steady. Unshaken. And, somehow, it made you want to believe in something you hadn’t allowed yourself to believe in for a long time.

“I’ve spent so much of my life pretending to be someone I’m not,” you admitted quietly, voice catching on the words. “But when I’m with you, Fred… I don’t have to pretend.”

Fred’s expression softened, and for a moment, there was no teasing, no sarcastic remarks. Just him, holding your gaze, his thumb tracing slow circles on your hand. “Then stop pretending,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Be who you are. Whoever that is. With me, it’s more than enough.”

You couldn’t help the soft sigh that left your lips, the vulnerability you tried so hard to hide spilling out without warning. “Alright,” you said, your voice a whisper now. “Let’s try.”

Fred’s grin widened, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. “Brilliant,” he said, squeezing your hand. “But just so we’re clear—when you inevitably fall madly in love with me, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

You rolled your eyes, but this time, the smile that tugged at your lips was undeniable. Your heart was racing, but for the first time, it wasn’t out of fear—it was out of something new. Something thrilling.

“We’ll see about that, Weasley,” you said, the words playful but the meaning beneath them real, unguarded.

Fred’s laughter filled the air, warm and unrestrained, as the weight of everything you’d carried for so long seemed to lift, just a little, under the glow of the stars above. Deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe you would fall for him, in spite of everything. And maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to stop fighting it.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t mind losing. You were willing to let yourself be found.

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep - 4 [F. W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. It’s been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]’s bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if it’s dark. Thank you for sticking with me!

PART FOUR

The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sent—date, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.

“The Carrows are a respectable family,” [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. “This union secures alliances and ensures my… comfortable life.”

Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own family’s. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.

Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany desk—a letter from Alecto Carrow’s eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: “I am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.”

She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?

Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of him—his name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of ‘A’ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.

[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he clever—prone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.

But none of that mattered. Not really. Whether charming or dull, she would marry him. She had no choice in the matter. Yet, as she stared at the letter, she found herself scoffing not only at its lack of substance but at the bitter truth beneath her dissatisfaction: he wasn’t Fred Weasley. No description of his athleticism or cleverness, no fiery wit or daring spirit leapt from the page. Her fiancé’s words painted no picture of a man who could make her laugh, challenge her, or infuriate her with his reckless bravery. He wasn’t Fred, and that fact gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

Fred Weasley—a reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.

“You are a Malfoy,” Lucius’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. “Act like it.”

And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.

The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessory—a passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.

She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.

Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,” she said, her voice polished and detached.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],” he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.

She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didn’t know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.

All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in age—a mere four years—might bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.

Her mother’s subtle gestures through the evening—a gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glance—were meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.

The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.

When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.

She desired it.

She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhood—beautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.

There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.

That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewellery—not as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional love—bound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.

Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parents’ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.

[y/n] could see it in her mind’s eye—everything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.

Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.

With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept once—something she scoffed at, even feared—but now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.

[y/n] Malfoy—though she’d long since shed that infamous surname—had carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldn’t think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didn’t wonder for long. Humans, she’d learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.

Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiency—she conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, she’d climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of London’s poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.

Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. She’d caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoy—the name she’d once worn like armour—was now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the family’s fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.

She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.

Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.

Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had made—they felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.

But life in the Muggle world wasn’t entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where she’d come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.

To them, she was just [Y/N]—quirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the “office wizard,” a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than she’d expected.

They didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer, didn’t pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.

It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. “You’re always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?”

[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good people—Muggles, yes, but kind ones.

“Not many,” she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been… focused on work.”

Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territory—Clara’s latest Tinder misadventures and the office intern’s questionable taste in trousers.

[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

Fred Weasley.

She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadn’t faded. And then there was the kiss.

She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. She’d pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her then—surprised, confused, and just a little hurt.

The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was alive—that much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.

And yet, the name Weasley—his name—remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.

It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life she’d left behind.

So why wasn’t it?

TWO MONTHS LATER

Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.

It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasn’t.

Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, I’m still here. Now open already.

Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.

Maybe it was right. She didn’t belong—not any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.

Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricity—a calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. She’d imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, she’d got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, “We see you, Little Malfoy.”

And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.

And yet, here she stood, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.

“Are you alright, Clara?” [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.

Clara hesitated, biting her lip. “You told me about that boy from your… younger years, didn’t you? The red-haired one?”

[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. “Fred?”

“I think… I think I saw him in my dream last night,” Clara said, her tone unsure. “I’m not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt… strange.”

That had caught [Y/N]’s attention. “Go on.”

Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. “He asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It was—well, creepy, honestly. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasn’t her. He was tall with broad shoulders.”

The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldn’t be anyone else.

For hours afterward, Clara’s words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasley—that she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?

It wasn’t normal.

It had to be Fred’s doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the day’s first customers.

But the shop remained stubbornly closed.

“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.

After everything it had taken her to get here—alright, so Apparating wasn’t that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been daunting—she wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. She’d be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.

Still, she couldn’t shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.

Her eyes roamed the building’s vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something she’d nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didn’t lead into the shop itself—that much was clear—but to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.

“Bingo,” she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldn’t they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.

Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldn’t come to her, then maybe she’d just have to go to him.

The first door—the one leading to the staircase—was conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.

The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.

Oh, right. Magic.

The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wards—it felt… simpler.

At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldn’t say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.

The real question, however, was which door led to Fred’s flat. She could knock, of course—work her way down the line, one by one—but the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?

Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasn’t just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadn’t seen in years. Fred wasn’t the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?

Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasn’t ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.

And here she was, almost a CEO—practically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retired—and she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.

Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fred—or George—would have to leave the flat.

A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadn’t thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?

Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadn’t touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since she’d used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.

In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground up—money, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up on—and the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much she’d changed, some parts of her would always remain.

“Blimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?”

The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surprise—definitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasn’t one she was expecting to hear.

She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead she’d remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.

Ron was leaving one of the flats—the second one on the right—and just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fred—[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not George—peered over Ron’s broad shoulders, his gaze searching.

Fred glanced over Ron’s shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.

“Hello, Ronnie,” [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?

From Ron’s reaction, she couldn’t help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasn’t really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone who’d survived shared—the one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.

Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easier—no longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.

As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.

[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.

“Thanks,” she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts… in that damn battle?” he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.

She could lie. She could say yes, tell him she’d been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didn’t.

“No, I think you saw me last at my graduation,” [y/n] answered honestly.

“Oh!” Ron’s face lit up. “The one Fred and George didn’t get.”

[y/n] couldn’t help but grin at the memory. In another life—one where she wasn’t standing here like an uninvited ghost—Fred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.

Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasn’t for Ron—it was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: “What on earth are you doing here?”

Or perhaps it was more like: “What the bloody hell do you want?”

[y/n] couldn’t decide. Either way, it didn’t seem good.

She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fred’s and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.

“So, what brings you here?” Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, let’s respect her age) on Fred’s doorstep.

Or did it make sense?

As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.

“I need to talk to your brother, Ron,” [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldn’t help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.

That wasn’t to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt of—broad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.

And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didn’t matter—Fred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through it—soft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.

What had initially seemed like disinterest—no, scratch that, anger—suddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasley’s face.

Ron grinned awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I think I’ll head over to the shop now, if that’s alright with you, Fred?”

Fred didn’t bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain he’d left her—and her family—far behind.

“Do you open at nine?” [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. “Who opens at nine?” she almost laughed.

“It’s my shop,” Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than he’d intended. “I open whenever I want.”

[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. “Well, you're losing money, then,” she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about business—and how to make a proper profit.

Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. “Do you want me to show you my income statement?” he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it was—Fred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.

“There’s no need,” she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.

At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Invite her in,” he suggested helpfully. “Offer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.”

Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brother’s head—unsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.

The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on in, then. Can’t have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.”

Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'it’ll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, and—strangely enough—several unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.

There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculine—warm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fred’s cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.

[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchen—a narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ron’s advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didn’t join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.

“To what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?” he asked, casually annoyed.

“To yourself, I suppose,” [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. “I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t tormented me.”

Fred’s brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I torment you?” he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. “Blimey, I don’t see how, but somehow I’m proud of myself. Although…” He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I suspect, somehow, it’s all your fault.”

The look she shot him—arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes—spoke volumes. It was a “don’t-you-dare” glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, “your unconscious’s fault, maybe?”

“I don’t see how,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence he’d just used.

His grin broadened.

“Now, Malfoy,” he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, “it’s not my fault you’re still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.”

Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the table’s edge, her posture straightening. He couldn’t still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, he’d grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.

Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent history—a truth they both remembered all too well—or she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.

The “what ifs” always stung sharper than the “so it was.”

“Fred,” she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, “I won’t get into this petty squabble with you.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. “I only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggle—an innocent person.”

Fred’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. “A Muggle?” he echoed, straightening slightly.

“Yes,” she pressed on, her tone sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? That’s low, even for you.”

The confusion on Fred’s face deepened. “Clara?” he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.

[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. “She’s my friend,” she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.

Fred’s head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. “And… she’s been having nightmares about me?” he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.

[Y/N] didn’t answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. “She dreamt of you,” she admitted, her tone clipped. “But that’s not the point. The point is…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. “If this is your doing, you’ve crossed a line.”

For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughed—a low, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, “you think I’m invading people’s dreams now? What do you reckon I am—a rogue boggart with a wand?”

Her glare didn’t waver. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was playing. “You’re capable of far more than you let on.”

Fred’s grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. “Well,” he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, “if I’m such a menace, then you’re just going to have to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after all—and if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.

“For God’s sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, aren’t you?” [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. “I’m not going to curse you. I want my peace—and Clara’s—back. Just tell me you’ll fix this, and I’ll leave. Go back to my life.”

“‘For God’s sake’ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?” Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. “Turned into a squib?”

“I wish I was,” she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. “Then at least these nightmares would stop.” She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. “You know magic, Fred. You know how it works. It’s more about emotion than the fancy incantations.”

“Yes,” Fred tilted his head slightly, “and so what?”

“So,” she pressed, “we need the goodbye we never got. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want your goodbye, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams… they won’t stop.”

For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.

Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “Tell me you haven’t been dreaming too, and I’ll walk away. Tell me I didn’t show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and I’ll go away. I’ll claim to the world that I’m the emotionally immature one, that I couldn’t get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.”

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knew—knew—he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“I knew it!” [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. “You have been dreaming about me.”

Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. “Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “And don’t act like this is my fault. I didn’t invite myself into your dreams—you did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.”

Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. “It’s not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldn’t choose you as my nightly torment.” He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. “Unless you’re saying I’m just that irresistible?”

She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to haunt you—”

“Funny,” he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.”

“Fred,” she breathed, and this time, it wasn’t a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.

The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.

She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. “They were right, you know,” she said softly, as though admitting a secret she’d kept hidden for years. “It’s all about the ‘what ifs.’”

Fred didn’t reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behind—my name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought… if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps you wouldn’t matter.”

She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. “But it didn’t work. You’re still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.”

Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasn’t often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.

“Poorly written ghost?” he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.”

“Fred—” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Or Shakespeare,” he added with a smug grin. “Can’t you see it? ‘O Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?’ It’s tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.”

Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of mockery there. “It’s the ‘what if,’ isn’t it? Our ‘what if.’ What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, it’s us—haunting and being haunted.”

SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER

Oh, her silence spoke volumes.

That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprises—none of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.

The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.

It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George weren’t just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t just fear—it was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didn’t know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.

When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time alone—to figure out who he was without being defined by “Fred and George.” Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.

In the first year of George’s travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasn’t. It was easy to forget that George wasn’t his neighbour next door.

But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same place—discovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.

It hadn’t been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]—his siren, his tormentor—appeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.

Ron had noticed Fred’s downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to George’s absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoy—just like her brother Draco—and someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret he’d carry to his grave.

But now, here she was—his siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.

Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadn’t changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sure—but not in the ways she claimed.

She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldn’t quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. She’d smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.

The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the air—not cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.

It was almost… domestic. And that was the problem.

Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. “So,” he began, his voice low, measured. “Are we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don’t have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. It’s your fault.”

[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. “Not me, Weasley.”

“Right,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because running off after a kiss isn’t a concern at all. It’s perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.”

She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You want to know why I ran? Because I’ve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my family’s destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasn’t like them. Someone who could… break the cycle.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I had to grow up and realize that no one—not even you—could be my saviour. I have to be my own.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. “Do you know what it’s like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didn’t have two Sickles to rub together. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to prove them all wrong?”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.

“I heard about your engagement,” he said, his tone dipping. “The moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to… Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realized…” His voice softened. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.

“When I heard that you ran off, disgracing your family’s name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?” Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. “You don’t have to… any more.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”

Fred’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“This is a bad idea,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.

Fred’s breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “I like bad ideas. They’re the bestsellers at the shop.”

And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fred’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.

It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worlds—so different, so at odds—collided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fred’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.

“See?” he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. “Bad ideas can be brilliant.”

[Y/N] couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. “You’re insufferable, Weasley.”

“And yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,” he shot back, grinning.

At that moment, standing in Fred’s cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas weren’t so bad after all.

Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this moment—something plucked out of the pages of a story she hadn’t dared to believe could ever be hers.

“So,” Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and what’s her name.”

[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. “Friends?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call us.”

“Oh?” Fred’s grin widened. “And what would you call us, then?”

“Two idiots,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone—only a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, stepping closer again, “I say we’re bloody brilliant at it.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just them—two people who had spent years running from what-if’s, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.

TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)

The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fred’s mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.

[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin.

“I don’t know how this house is still standing,” Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. “I mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy, and I’m certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.” She paused, then added, “Honestly, it’s like a miracle.”

“Structural spells,” [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. “Er, I mean, I’m kidding! Fred’s dad’s very… handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s… charming. Ridiculous, but charming.”

Then, as kind as always, she added, “It’s… unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,” her Muggle practicality shining through. “You look perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“Nervous?” [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. “I’m a CEO. I don't get nervous.”

And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.

“Oh, is that right?” Fred’s voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because from here, it looks like you’re about to bolt.”

“Fred,” Clara said with mock exasperation, “you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony!”

“It’s bad luck,” [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Bad luck, good luck… I think we’ve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.

Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.

“George!” Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. “Told you he’d make it.”

George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.

“Sorry, I’m late,” George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. “Had to pick up a plus-one.”

“Fashionably late as always,” Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. “I was starting to think you’d run off to Peru again.”

“Not this time,” George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. “Couldn’t miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.”

[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t lost your charm, George.”

“Nor my memory,” he quipped. “Always knew I’d see you again, Malfoy.”

“Lovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you don’t mind…” [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. “I’d like to get married sometime this century.”

George raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more.” He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siren?” he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.

“Let’s,” she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.

The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.

“I do.”

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. “Told you bad ideas are brilliant.”

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt free—free of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldn’t help but smile.

After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.

Weasley.

[thimbleandakiss]

Chapter 7 of my Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader long fic Serpents and Cinnamon, "The Smell of New Books" is out now!

Fic summary: The eldest Malfoy once thought that she and a particular pair of ginger wizards would be fast friends, but when her parents inform her that she shouldn't fraternize with such blood traitors, she shuts them, and almost everyone else, out, becoming the cold, calculating daughter they want her to be.

But when circumstances push them back together, can she find the strength of will to keep them out? For their sake, not her own? Or will she find herself too drawn to the freedom they exude and get herself wrapped up in a tangled web of secrets, love, and lies?

[colmiillo]

I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

[nottsangel]

— hp porn links ੈ♡˳ 16k celebration.

warning: 18+ only. these are twitter links that contain porn videos. these are not fics.

includes: theodore nott, mattheo riddle, draco malfoy, tom riddle, lorenzo berkshire, pansy parkinson, fred weasley, george weasley, ron weasley and harry potter.

nav . m.list . drabbles m.list

— THEODORE NOTT

brother’s bsf!theo fucking you in your room

sex with toxic!theo after a fight

dealer!theo fucking you in his car

bf!theo using you as a stress reliever

— MATTHEO RIDDLE

roommate!mattheo fucking you while everyone’s asleep

missionary with mattheo in his dorm room

bsf!mattheo helping you relax after a long day

classmate!mattheo fucking you against his desk

— DRACO MALFOY

enemy!draco fingering you in the bathroom

draco pounding into you from behind

dom!draco spanking you when you misbehave

draco sneaking into your dorm room late at night

— TOM RIDDLE

dom!tom fucking your throat

rough sex with tom after you’ve been needy all day long

bf!tom fingering you

tom waking you up in the middle of the night

— LORENZO BERKSHIRE

roommate!enzo fucking you in your room

makeup sex with bf!enzo after an argument

dom!enzo fingering you

reverse cowgirl with bsf!enzo

— PANSY PARKINSON

making out with bsf!pansy

gf!pansy eating you out

pansy fingering you in the bathroom between classes

sleepovers with bsf!pansy

— FRED WEASLEY

bsf!fred eating you out

morning sex with roommate!fred

bf!fred fucking you after you flirt with someone else

riding fred’s face after a stressful day

— GEORGE WEASLEY

bf!george breeding you full

baking with bsf!george

morning sex with roommate!george

george fucking you raw after you pull the condom off

— RON WEASLEY

jerking off sub!ron

riding classmate!ron after class

ron fucking you against the wall

sleepy sex with bf!ron

— HARRY POTTER

needy harry fucking your thighs

missionary with harry

dom!harry fingering you from behind

shower sex with bf!harry

[shelbybyr]

When you run out of fics to read

[sivyera]

nsfw headcanons and kinks of harry potter characters

ft. harry, ron, cedric, fred, george, draco, blaise, theodore, tom, hermione, pansy

a/n: well there is obviously a lot of SMUT, also it's a female reader

༺☆༻

⤷ Harry - lingerie

harry for sure loves when you wear some nice pair of lingerie, he finds it so hot when the nice lace hugs your body so perfectly. every time when he's out, he looks for some new pair of lingerie that he would buy you. oh yeah he buys you every single pair but one time, you surprised him on his b-day with red pair of lingerie (like gryffindor theme lingerie) and he was hard within seconds.

"oh- oh my fucking god, you look amazing sweetheart. do a spin for me please- slowly, i wanna see how pretty you look in this" harry hummed while he sat on his bed with you slowly turning in front of him. he could feel his hard dick pressing against his pants, pre-cum already making his boxers dirty. he brushed his hand over his erection before he hummed again. "come closer baby, i wanna touch you..."

⤷ Ron - body worship

ron was very unexperienced at the start, you were basically his first everything, first girlfriend, first kiss, first lover. so when was the first time you two had sex, he was just so mesmerized by your whole body that he had to watch himself for not cumming into his pants just from the sight of your naked body. you are gorgeous in his eyes, more than that! from that time it kinda sticked with him, every time you two have sex now, he has to worship you before anything, he wants you to know how beautiful you are on his eyes...

you could feel ron's hands tracing soft patterns over your sides while his eyes were glued to your boobs. "bloody hell, baby you are so beautiful.. " he mumbled while he moved his big palms over your boobs, squeezing them lightly. "i can't belive how lucky i'm to have you, now let me make you feel good." he added before he took off your panties and kissed his way down to your pretty cunt.

⤷ Cedric - praise kink

cedric is overall very vocal when you two have sex, he either growls, hums, groans, breaths heavily or he's mumbling praises to you. he really cannot help himself when he sees you all spread under him; your legs wrapped around him, your hands scratching his back while he holds your hips and is thrusting into you, mercilessly. he always makes sure that you can hear him properly so he usually leans closer to you, brushing his lips over your ear in soft kisses, whispering praise right into your ear.

"you're doing so good princess, taking all of me like this..." he whispers into your ear, his hips are crushing against yours, his dick hitting every right spot while you're a moaning mess under him. "you feel so good, i can't get enough of you, my sweet girl.." he groans again into your ear while his tempo isn't slowing down.

⤷ Fred - public sex

fred is thrilled with the idea of getting caught, it's the adrenaline and the possessivness from him screaming, i mean he wants people to know that you're his, that you chose him and that only HE makes you feel this good. so you two usually have sex somewhere around hogwarts. empty classroom, broom closet, empty gryffindor common room, bathroom, you name it.

"shh baby, be quiet you don't want anybody to catch us, do you?" he smirks while he has you seated on a desk in empty potion class. both of you are skipping class so it's pretty quiet outside on the hallways, anyone who will walk past can hear you. he doesn't care how loud you are because he doesn't care if you two get caught, he just wants to tease you. even tho you try to be quiet, you can't help yourself and moan again. "naughty girl yeah, let everybody know how good i make you feel..."

⤷ George - orgasm denial

george loves the face you make when he pushes you to the edge but just seconds before you're about to cum, he slows down his moves or stops completely, kissing your skin instead. he also loves teasing you but the way you get all pouty and squeeze around him when he denies you your orgasm is just something he can never get tired of. but eventually he'll let you cum and it's always the best orgasm ever.

he was thrusting into you in the perfect rhythm when you felt the familiar knot forming inside your belly, but just when the knot was about to release, he stopped. instead he immediately pressed his lips against your chest, kissing you around your boobs. "i know baby, i know... i'll give you what you want but god- when you squeeze around me like this, i can't help myself."

⤷ Draco - daddy kink

draco has big daddy issues so many of you could say that he'd hate being called daddy but he actually loves it. it makes him feel good, powerful and in control which he never was while being back home so... when you started calling him like this, he didn't let you stop. he sees you as his blessing and he wants to protect you with everything he has, like a good daddy should protect his precious baby.

"you're such a good girl for daddy, princess..." draco huffed while he was buried deep inside you. his hands were pressing your knees to your chest which made you ass go little up, letting him hit the perfect spot inside you. "yes, tell me who's your daddy? mhmf-..." he continues while you're mumbling under him. he loves when those sweet words leave your pretty mouth, it almost always makes him cum in seconds.

⤷ Blaise - bondage

blaise loves seeing how your flesh presses under the bondage, making your thighs and boobs look even more soft and squishy than they already are. he either bondages your whole body or only ankles and wrists so you can't move, but he loves both equaly. he always takes his time when he's wrapping the rope around your body but he also always makes sure that everything he does is comfortable to you, it could be dangerous for you and he doesn't wanna hurt you.

"you feelin' good, babe?" he speaks while his long fingers are brushing over your inner thighs, his eyes basically glued to the plush of them. he could feel his hard dick twitching in his boxers, leaving a small wet mark over the fabric so he quickly strokes himself before he continues. "you look so pretty like this, all just for me... take a deep breath, babe, just like this..."

⤷ Theodore - deep throat

there is nothing more theo loves more than when you are on your knees, your glassy looking up at him with tears falling down your cheeks while he hears how you are gagging on his dick. he doesn't care if you have good or bad gagging reflex, you can take it for him. if it's very serious and you just have to take a quick pause, he'll let you rest for like 30s before pushing you down on his dick again, this time little deeper than before. and when you let him cum into your mouth, you got yourself "bonus" orgasm.

"ngh- fuck baby-... your tongue feels so good around me, mhmm..." he hums while his head falls down between his shoulder blades with his fingers being tangled in your hair, pushing your head lower on his dick. his groans and moans are non-stopping while he can feel himself getting closer and closer. when he looks down at you and sees your pretty, bambi eyes already staring at him, he can feel himself cum. "oh dio-... now swallow for me, amore."

⤷ Tom - choking

choking makes feel tom in control, in control of your life while he brings you the best pleasure of your life. he can feel your pulse point under his thumb while you make this incredibly fuckable face, it drives him wild and incredibly horny. he can feel your heartbeat while he also makes you feel so good, it makes him feel powerful and he's hungry for power, any kind of power. but he'd never let you pass out, that's a big no for him.

he thrusted inside and out of you, mercilessly, while he had his hand firmly wrapped around you neck, perfectly feeling how was your heart beating through your pulse point. "oh are you about to cum? yeah, cum for me, my love..." he growled when his grip got tighter, making your eyes close in pleasure. you were still moaning under him which made him go little faster. with all of this, he came as well.

⤷ Hermione - thigh riding

hermione loves when she can multitask, it's somehow comforting to her. so one time when you found her in the library, learning for some up coming test, writing into her books; you sat on her thigh, wanting to distract her, she was hooked. she loved the feeling of you on her thigh, pleasuring yourself while she could write some notes into her textbook. from that time, she loved it and she often pulls you onto her lap with her thigh in perfect position for your pussy.

she wrote the last words into her book before her hands grabbed your hips, making you move faster, making your pussy spread over her thigh. "mhm you feel good like this? yes, you do? oh i know... come on, little faster." she mumbled into your ear, kissing you all the way down to your neck while her nails dug into your soft hips making you moan.

⤷ Pansy - face-sitting

pansy is literally obsessed with your pussy and all the noises you make when her tongue is buried deep inside you. she loves to explore all your folds because every time her tongue presses against a new spot, you squeeze your thighs around her head which makes her rub her thighs against each other. her eyes are glued on you the whole time while she presses her nose against your clit.

"mhmh come on-..." she quickly mumbles before she pushes your hips more onto her mouth while her tongue pushes deep inside you. her hands helped your hips slowly move back and forth while her tongue was licking each of your folds, swallowing each of your juice that she got on her tongue. your moans filled her ears and she could see you were getting closer which made her tongue work even faster.

[hs-is-loml]

FORGET ABOUT SMUT. PLEASE I AM TIRED OF IT. I NEED ANGST. I NEED GUT WRENCHING EMOTIONAL TURMOIL THAT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH. I NEED TO BAWL JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT IT.

[mssorceressupreme]

Wanna Be Yours | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

———

The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

[noelan1]

Do you ever read a really questionable fanfiction or a spicy love story and think "what the fuck did I just read"

[un-creativename]

Did I screen record my TikToks because of the TikTok ban?

Yes, yes, I did 🤭

Didn’t wanna clog up the tags with each edit so it’s just one long video.

©un-creativename : All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

[incorrectharrypotterblog]

Hermione: why are threesomes only for sex

Hermione: why can’t I join in on a couples argument if I want to

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep [F.W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Summary: [y/n] Malfoy struggles with her family's dark secrets while navigating her final year at Hogwarts. A bizarre Defence Against the Dark Arts class forces her into unexpected alliances.

Warning: Mentions of dark magic, family drama, mild angst

A/N: Hey everyone! This one was inspired by the song Bad Idea from the musical Waitress. It’s going to have plenty of forbidden feelings. And yes, [Y/N] Malfoy is supposed to have the silver hair and the family looks, so I hope that doesn't put anyone off. I plan this to be a 4 part ride, and I have the rest ready to post, I’ll just give it a gap between the posts. Hope you enjoy this ride!

Secrets We Keep Masterlist (check it out for the updates!)

PART ONE

Her straight blond locks fell over her shoulders as she meticulously brushed her hair, part by part. The Slytherin dormitory provided her with a sizeable mirror—not as grand or as ornate as the one in her room at Malfoy Manor, but an acceptable looking glass perched atop a small, dark wood dressing table.

[y/n] Malfoy, the firstborn of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, carried a weighty legacy. Despite being female and, by tradition, barely an heir to anything substantial, she had a status to uphold. She was expected to set an example for the youngest in the family, Draco, who was two years her junior. The Malfoy lineage was strikingly consistent: father and offspring alike shared the same silver hair and sharp facial features. But their similarities went beyond appearances—personality, too, seemed an inheritance in the Malfoy bloodline.

At least, that was the consensus. Fred Weasley, however, recalled [y/n] as being somewhat kinder during her first and second years at Hogwarts. It seemed her brother’s influence had a way of souring anyone’s demeanour with his mere presence.

Not that Fred was keen to defend her. He simply believed in keeping the facts straight.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, [y/n] Malfoy was simply brushing her hair before bed.

“Do you think this year will be different?” she asked, addressing the girls in her dormitory. Her question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied the darkest-haired girl in the room, her tone slightly curious.

“Last year, a student was killed,” [y/n] said, her voice thoughtful. “The school must have been horrified. Perhaps they’ll change some rules this year.” She placed her comb on the dressing table and turned to face the others, casting a final glance at her reflection. “I’m sure the parents weren’t happy.”

“Some were,” came a soft whisper from the smallest girl in the room. Petite in stature but formidable in character, she was known for her strong opinions.

The group chose to ignore the comment. It was safer not to delve into why certain parents might have approved of the tragedy. Slytherins often shared common ground, but values varied greatly from one family to another. It was only natural.

“Do you suppose they’ll add a curfew or something?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“We already have a curfew,” pointed out a blond girl seated in the corner next to [y/n].

“Really?” The dark-haired girl sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Either way,” the blond girl continued, “if anything were going to change, they would’ve announced it tonight at dinner.”

“Dumbledore kind of did,” [y/n] said, tilting her head thoughtfully as she recalled the new face at the professors’ table. “When he introduced Professor Umbridge.”

“She seemed… pinkly nice,” the dark-haired girl scoffed, her tone dripping with irony as she thought of the new professor’s saccharine wardrobe.

The room filled with quiet chuckles, though no one voiced what they were all thinking: it was bound to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.

[y/n] climbed into bed, wishing more than anything for this school year to be over. Her final year at Hogwarts loomed ahead, demanding more from her than ever. There were lessons to master, exams to ace, and expectations to exceed. Perfect scores were a non-negotiable; her parents expected nothing less, and she was determined to show Draco—smug and competitive as ever—that Malfoys always set the standard.

Yet, sleep didn’t come easily that night. Her mind was restless, racing with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. It was absurd—she always had too much on her mind, but it had never stopped her from falling asleep before. Restless and uneasy, she glanced around the room. The rhythmic breathing of her four roommates confirmed they were sound asleep. Slipping out of bed, [y/n] grabbed her dark green slippers and heavy fur-lined coat, moving silently to avoid disturbing anyone.

Once in the dimly lit corridors, she considered stopping by the underwater window in the Slytherin common room. Watching the occasional fish glide past the glass might calm her, might lull her into the drowsiness she craved—but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. She didn’t have the patience to wait for a stray creature to appear.

Instead, she wandered, her slippered feet padding softly against the cold floors of the castle. She didn’t have a destination in mind. Perhaps a long walk would tire her out, or at least give her restless thoughts somewhere else to go.

But no matter how far she walked, one thought remained rooted firmly in her mind. It was a revelation she had stumbled upon at the end of the last school year, one that haunted her more than she cared to admit. For so long, she’d managed to ignore the small signs, dismissing them with self-spun lies. “My parents are just meanies,” she would tell herself whenever their behaviour didn’t sit right. “They’re just... particular.”

The cracks in those lies began to show when she returned home last summer, the news of Cedric Diggory’s death casting a shadow over the wizarding world. Cedric’s murder, tied to whispers of the Dark Lord’s return, should have shaken her family. But their reactions were anything but expected. Narcissa had been anxious, drinking glass after glass of wine for two days straight, while Lucius, ever composed, placed a hand on [y/n]’s shoulder and said, with unnerving calm, “Don’t worry, dear. You will never be in danger.”

What followed was even more unsettling. Seven days after Cedric’s death, instead of mourning or showing respect for the boy’s memory, the Malfoys hosted a dinner party. Their carefully selected guests brought no laughter, no celebration—but neither was there grief. Instead, all [y/n] heard was frustrated murmuring: “Who failed to get the right boy?!”

That evening shattered any illusions she’d clung to. Her family—the noble, proud, and pure Malfoy line—was not simply complicit. They were part of it. Part of him. The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had returned, and the Malfoys were among those responsible.

Her steps slowed as she reached the edge of a stairwell, her hand gripping the cool stone railing. She hated herself for not knowing sooner, for not wanting to know. But now that she did, the weight of the truth was inescapable.

She sat down on the bottom step, letting her black furry robe cascade down to the floor below. She had wandered far, at least three floors above the Slytherin common room. Here, in the stillness of the upper castle, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. She took out a pocket watch, old and worn, but made of white gold, rare at the time and one of the few heirlooms that she could receive as a woman. She flicked it open and checked the time: late enough that no curious professor or wandering prefect would be about.

Satisfied, [y/n] tucked the watch away and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her head against her knees, and finally, the tears she’d held in for so long began to fall. She cried silently, just as she’d been taught at home. No sobs, no gasping breaths—only the silent tremble of her shoulders, a skill perfected under the unspoken rules of a family where weakness was not permitted.

Fred Weasley wouldn’t have noticed her if not for the cascade of black fabric pooling at the bottom of the stairs. The dim light caught the edge of the robe, and his sharp eyes picked it out against the stone. He froze, his arm shooting out to block his twin, who was hurrying behind him.

George stumbled to a halt, confused. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Fred didn’t answer. Instead, he placed a finger to his lips, signalling for silence. His eyes flicked downward, toward the shadowy figure huddled on the step below. George followed his gaze and frowned, finally spotting her.

[y/n] Malfoy.

The two brothers had plenty of questions, but haste was their greatest ally at that moment. They needed to disappear before anyone caught them in the aftermath of their latest nocturnal mischief—a botched attempt to sneak into Ravenclaw Tower and plant a stink bomb.

George looked at Fred, his brow raised in silent inquiry. Fred mouthed, “Go ahead,” and lowered the arm that had stopped his twin in his tracks. With a quick nod, George turned on his heel and slipped away, his steps as silent as a whisper against the floor.

But Fred didn’t follow. Instead, he lingered, taking a quiet step closer to the spiral staircase where [y/n] Malfoy sat hidden. The curve of the wall shielded her from view; all he could see was the edge of her dark robe spilling across the step and a glimpse of her feet, clad in green slippers.

Why was he curious? He couldn’t quite answer that, but he knew he was. He and [y/n] were in the same year and shared a handful of classes, but their interactions had been sparse and superficial. Well, unless you counted the times he and George had tried—unsuccessfully—to jinx her. No matter how clever or mischievous their spells, they never seemed to land.

Still, there was one memory that stood out, buried in the back of his mind. It was from when they were fourteen, in a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. That year’s professor had introduced the class to a boggart, and chaos had predictably ensued. Gryffindors being Gryffindors, Fred, George, and Angelina had spent most of the lesson joking and disrupting, so much so that the exasperated professor had rearranged the students, placing a Slytherin between them to restore order. That Slytherin had been [y/n].

Fred remembered her stepping up to face the boggart. She’d handled it quickly, efficiently—so quickly, in fact, that most of the class probably missed what she saw. But Fred hadn’t.

For the briefest moment, the boggart had taken the form of a man with pale hair and sharp, disdainful features: Lucius Malfoy. He hadn’t been angry or menacing. He’d simply looked... disappointed. That was all.

Fred doubted even the professor had caught the detail, and no one had said a word. “Great job, Miss Malfoy,” the teacher had praised, moving on as if nothing had happened.

Fred had been next in line. The boggart shifted into his own worst fear: poverty. The image of himself in tattered robes and empty pockets had haunted him for weeks afterward, but it was [y/n]’s boggart that lingered in his memory.

Now, standing closer to the staircase, Fred’s curiosity only grew. Why was she out here alone? Why had she been crying? The Malfoys weren’t exactly known for public displays of emotion—or for anything remotely vulnerable. Yet there she was, a small figure tucked into the shadows, her robe sprawling across the cold stone like the weight of her world.

Fred knew better than to approach her directly. He leaned slightly closer, just enough to catch a better glimpse, his curiosity warring with the knowledge that he was dangerously close to being discovered.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Fred shifted his weight, leaning further toward the shadows. His breath caught for a moment, his instincts warning him to turn back. The faint scrape of his shoe against the stone echoed far louder than it should have in the silence. Fred froze, his heart leaping to his throat.

[y/n] stiffened, her head snapping up. She didn’t say anything at first, her tear-streaked face half-hidden by the folds of her robe. But then she whispered, her voice trembling and raw, “Who’s there?”

Fred didn’t answer. He held his breath, hoping against hope that she’d dismiss the sound as her imagination. Yet, the fragility in her voice made something twist in his chest—a flicker of guilt, maybe? Or pity? He didn’t know.

She turned slightly, peering into the shadows, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Who’s there?” This time, it was louder, edged with desperation, but still no answer came.

Fred should’ve left then. He should’ve melted into the darkness like George had, unseen and unnoticed. But his feet refused to move. Instead, his gaze lingered on her hunched form, her vulnerability cutting through the layers of family loyalty and Slytherin pride that normally defined her.

For a fleeting moment, he wavered. Maybe she deserved... something. A word, a gesture, anything to acknowledge that she was seen. However, the blood in her veins was steeped in a legacy of superiority and cruelty, and Fred couldn’t let himself forget that.

He clenched his jaw, his decision solidifying like ice around his chest. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. Whatever she was dealing with, it wasn’t his problem. He was Fred Weasley, a Gryffindor, a prankster, a fighter. Not a saviour for a Slytherin.

Finally, he took a step back, his movements careful and deliberate. The faintest creak of his shoe betrayed him, but he didn’t stop. 

[y/n] sat frozen, her breath hitching. She’d heard something, she was sure of it. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, save for the faint hum of the castle at night. She wiped her face hastily, her hands trembling, and forced herself to rise. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she needed to move. To leave this place before whatever—or whoever—was lurking in the shadows revealed itself.

As she straightened, her gaze darted to the edge of the corridor. For the briefest second, she caught sight of a flicker of movement—a flash of red disappearing around the corner. Her breath caught, and her heart skipped a beat. She blinked, unsure if her tired, tear-filled eyes were playing tricks on her.

“A Weasley?” she whispered, the name barely audible. It lingered in the air for only a moment before she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Not every redhead is a Weasley, she reminded herself. Slytherin had a few, though none quite as conspicuous as that meddlesome family.

Still, her gut twisted. It felt like a Weasley. There was something about that fleeting glimpse that set her nerves on edge, a certainty she couldn’t explain. But it didn’t matter—or at least, it shouldn’t.

Her jaw tightened, and she pulled her robe closer, as if shielding herself from the thought. If it was a Weasley, she could only hope they hadn’t seen her like this. A Malfoy caught alone, out of bounds, and vulnerable? The scandal would ripple through the school faster than a firework spell gone wrong. And worse, it might reach Draco—or even her parents.

No, it was best not to dwell on it. She took a steadying breath, forcing the errant thought away. The Weasleys were nothing but trouble, always aligning themselves with chaos and rebellion. She couldn’t afford to let herself be dragged into their orbit, even accidentally.

Adjusting her posture, she turned back toward the stairwell. Whatever she had seen—or imagined—was no longer her concern.

TWO DAYS LATER

For reasons she could barely articulate, [y/n] Malfoy despised Defence Against the Dark Arts. It wasn’t just the subject itself—though she struggled with it more than she’d care to admit—but the entire ordeal of the class. Of course, no one knew this. She had ensured her parents never glimpsed so much as a hint of a subpar grade, and her classmates were none the wiser. She’d mastered the art of pretence, hiding her shortcomings behind charm and an uncanny knack for ingratiating herself with whichever professor was unlucky enough to take the position that year.

Her strategy was simple but effective: always smile, always volunteer. Clean the board, stay after hours, distribute handouts, or organize supplies—whatever needed doing, she was there to do it before the professor could even finish their request. Her fourth year, when Gilderoy Lockhart had been in charge, had been an exhausting marathon of fetching, flattering, and faking enthusiasm.

This year, however, presented an unexpected obstacle: Dolores Umbridge.

The new professor, swathed in an alarming amount of pink and armed with a sickly sweet smile, had proven frustratingly independent. [y/n] had tried to get ahead of the game, visiting the professor’s office the day before the first class.

“Thank you, dear, for the offer,” Umbridge had said, her saccharine voice dripping with false warmth as she sipped her tea. “But I shan’t need any assistance at the moment. You, children, are such a pleasure to care for, truly, and I prefer to manage things myself to ensure perfection. But rest assured, I’ll let you know if that changes.”

[y/n] had smiled politely, her stomach twisting in quiet fury as she left the office. She already hated the woman.

Umbridge’s pink walls and cat-covered plates were nauseating, but it was her demeanour that grated most. That high-pitched, syrupy tone and the way she wielded authority like a sugar-coated dagger—it was unbearable. [y/n] had spent years perfecting the art of blending in and appeasing authority figures, and now, for the first time, it felt like her carefully honed tactics had hit a wall.

With a resigned sigh, [y/n] accepted that her final year of Defence Against the Dark Arts would be a war waged on a battlefield of textbooks and long nights of study. No amount of flattery or feigned interest would get her through this class. She knew that as soon as she walked into her first lesson, hellish and eternal as it promised to be.

“Put away your wands,” Umbridge declared in her sickly sweet voice, the sound grating after mere seconds. “In this class, they won’t be necessary.”

[y/n] wasn’t the only one whose eyebrow arched confused. A quick glance around the room revealed identical expressions on almost every face. A class meant to teach defence magic that forbade the use of wands? How were students supposed to defend themselves, then?

Unintentionally, her gaze fell on the table behind hers—the one where the Weasley twins sat. Predictably, Fred and George looked less amused than bewildered. Their confusion was a rare sight; usually, they thrived on chaos. Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, while designed to teach practical spells for protection, had often served them well as inspiration for their pranks and traps.

Now, even they seemed uncertain of how to proceed, and [y/n] couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had realized how absurd this year’s lessons were about to become.

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense. Dolores Umbridge’s insistence had left the students more confused than enlightened. Seated at her usual place, [y/n] Malfoy folded her hands on the desk, her brow furrowed as she struggled to decipher the logic behind Umbridge’s declaration.

“You see, dears,” Umbridge began, her shrill voice cutting through the murmurs, “the Ministry’s position is that the Dark Arts are more of a historical concern than a present-day threat. Why, the idea that we must arm ourselves for combat is frightfully outdated! We shall focus on theory instead, for knowledge—not spells—is your true defence.”

Several students exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to speak. Umbridge continued, her smile growing wider, “After all, a true witch or wizard must rely on their intelligence and resourcefulness. Wands, my dear children, are not the only tools at your disposal. Often, they are unnecessary.”

That was when a Gryffindor boy, seated near the back, couldn’t contain himself any longer. “But what about when we’re attacked? Or if…” He trailed off, as if realizing he might have said too much. [y/n] glanced his way, trying to recall his name but coming up blank. All she could remember was that he was tall and had a persistent habit of speaking his mind.

Umbridge’s face remained fixed in its saccharine expression, but her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Attacked? Oh, what a dramatic imagination you have. There is no evidence to suggest you are at risk. If, however, you’re so intent on preparing for scenarios that are unlikely to occur,”—her voice turned ever so slightly sharper—“I shall give you an assignment to expand your understanding.”

She clapped her hands, the sound unnaturally loud in the stifling silence. “You will work in groups of three to research the theme: Wands Are Not Always Useful for a Wizard. Consider historical examples, theoretical arguments, and practical alternatives. This will teach you to think critically about your overreliance on magic.”

The room broke into an uproar of whispers and grumbles as students began turning to one another, quickly forming groups. [y/n] hesitated, scanning the room. As a Slytherin, she usually gravitated toward her housemates, but today, no one seemed to be looking her way. She caught sight of the girls from her room (even the one that was sharing her table, seconds before) already pulling one another, engrossed in discussion, clearly not sparing her a thought.

She waited a moment longer, hoping someone might notice her. No one did.

Just as the weight of being left out began to sink in, a deliberate, exaggerated cough drew her attention. She turned sharply to see George Weasley, sitting behind her, his hand raised to his mouth as if to stifle another “cough.” Next to him, Fred gave her a mock-innocent smile, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Looks like someone’s in need of a group,” Fred said, leaning forward slightly.

Pairing with the Weasley twins was the last thing she’d expected. They were loud, mischievous, and Gryffindors to the core—everything she was not. But with no other options presenting themselves… she gulped.

“Is that an offer to trio up?” she asked, unsure of their waters. They could be just pranking her, in bad taste.

Fred Weasley did not think the same thing as his twin. What was George thinking? Pairing up with a stuck-up Malfoy? It wasn’t the first time the twins had disagreed on something, but this felt monumental. Sure, she was one of the top students, but she was still a Mal-bloddy-foy!

But George had set the course, and now it was too late to turn back. The invitation was practically extended, even if begrudgingly. Fred sighed and nodded, though the words tasted odd coming out of his mouth.

“Welcome to the Weasley Wizz,” he said, trying to sound natural. “Should I let Mum know we’ve got a third twin now?”

[y/n] recoiled slightly, her face twisting in mock disgust. “No, please,” she replied, her tone genuinely alarmed.

George, watching the exchange, failed miserably at hiding his laughter. The attempt to stifle it only resulted in another exaggerated cough, and the twins exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” George said, recovering just enough to sound composed, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Should we schedule a day at the library?”

[y/n] blinked at him, then raised a dramatic hand to her chest, pretending to be deeply moved. “Wow. Will I be responsible for getting you two to set foot in the library? I might faint.”

Fred leaned on the desk, deadpan. “Actually, you can thank Umbridge for that miracle.”

She brushed off his jab with a dry laugh. “Sure. As if you’d have bothered if it weren’t for my presence. Let’s be clear—you two are going to work, or I swear I’ll skin you alive if we don’t get a good mark.”

She was right, of course, but neither twin would admit it aloud.

“Sunday afternoon, library. Don’t be late, Malfoy,” George announced, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“See you there,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

And just like that, [y/n] Malfoy found herself part of an unlikely trio—a collaboration destined to be anything but ordinary.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The worst part about being a twin, Fred Weasley thought, was that no matter how hard he tried to keep something from George, his twin always found out. It was like having his own personal Sneakoscope shadowing him at all times. However, the best part of being a twin was that, with one raised eyebrow or a subtle wave of his hand, George would let things go—no questions asked.

Usually.

“Why are you nervous?” George asked now, drawing out each syllable like a curious cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“Nervous? Me?” Fred scoffed, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into a picture of exaggerated denial.

The two of them were making their way down the corridor leading to the library—a momentous occasion, as this was not just any trip but their first ever purposeful visit. Fred was sure their arrival would send Madam Pince into cardiac arrest.

George, however, wasn’t about to let the odd energy in Fred’s demeanour slide. He threw out an arm to block his brother’s path, forcing him to halt abruptly.

“Come on, spill,” George pressed, turning to face him. His expression was full of mock seriousness, though curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “Are you scared of showing [y/n] Malfoy what an absolute dunce you are?”

Fred frowned, pushing his brother’s arm down and continuing forward. “No,” he said firmly, as if the suggestion itself were offensive.

George trailed after him, undeterred. “You’ve been weird about this all day,” he said lightly, but there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice now.

Fred stopped, let out a heavy sigh, and turned to his twin. “Fine,” he muttered. “I saw her crying.”

George tilted his head, one brow raised. “Malfoy?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. A few nights ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.” The word came out quickly, but there was a tinge of regret buried in Fred’s tone that George didn’t miss. “She didn’t see me.”

George hummed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “And you’ve been stewing about it since?”

“I wasn’t stewing—” Fred started, but George raised a hand to silence him, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a knowing smirk.

“Did you see what made her cry?”

“No,” Fred admitted, his tone a little quieter now. “I don’t know why. I just… it didn’t feel right to intrude.”

George studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair,” he said, surprising Fred by not pressing further. But before Fred could take a breath of relief, George added, “So now we’re making up for it by dragging ourselves to the library so we can study with her. It shall be a nice, friendly gesture. Very Gryffindor of us.”

Fred rolled his eyes, though the tips of his ears turned a little red. “Oh, stop it.”

“Sure,” George teased, giving Fred’s shoulder a playful shove as they reached the library doors. “Let’s hope she’s not armed with hexes if you mess this up.”

Fred muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and together, the twins stepped into the library, their usual mischief tempered—at least for now—by the weight of an unexpectedly complicated afternoon ahead.

The library was unusually busy for a Sunday afternoon, the soft hum of murmured conversations blending with the rustle of turning pages. [y/n] Malfoy moved purposefully between the towering shelves, her fingers skimming the spines of the books as she searched for something specific. The dim light filtering through the high windows cast a golden glow over the dust motes suspended in the air.

Despite the crowd, [y/n] wasn’t distracted. Her focus remained on the task at hand, though the slight crease in her brow betrayed her growing frustration. She muttered under her breath, stepping sideways to peer at the titles on a higher shelf.

“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy,” came a familiar voice behind her, rich with amusement.

[y/n] didn’t even flinch. She reached up to adjust a book on the shelf before glancing over her shoulder. “How fast do you think word spread that the infamous Weasley twins, who never so much as glance at a book, were spotted heading for the library?”

Fred Weasley’s grin widened as he leaned casually against the end of the shelf. “Oh, undoubtedly fast. We’re a sensation, you know. Practically Hogwarts royalty.”

“And we’ve got a reputation to maintain,” George added, appearing beside his brother. “So if you’d be so kind as to free us from this dreary establishment swiftly, we’d be much obliged.”

[y/n] let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she turned back to her search. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Fred placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. “Insufferable, maybe. Charming, definitely.”

After another moment of searching, [y/n] finally pulled a large, dusty book from the shelf with a satisfied nod. “Found it. Come on, let’s find a table.”

She led them toward a more secluded corner of the library, weaving through the crowd with practised ease. The twins followed, Fred’s footsteps slightly heavier than George’s as he muttered something about the endless maze of books. When they reached a quiet spot tucked behind a row of ancient tomes, [y/n] set the book down on the table with a decisive thud.

“Smart choice, hiding us away like this,” George remarked, sliding into a chair. “Wouldn’t want your Slytherin friends catching you with the likes of us.”

[y/n] smirked, taking a seat opposite him. “It’s not just my friends. If anyone saw me hanging out with you two, my reputation as a Slytherin would be ruined.”

Fred’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned forward. “Not just your reputation as a Slytherin. Your reputation as a Malfoy would be completely shattered.”

The lightness in [y/n]’s expression flickered, and her smile faded. She looked down at the book, her fingers brushing over its worn cover. “Let’s focus on the assignment,” she said quietly, flipping the book open.

Fred’s grin faltered. He glanced at George, who subtly shook his head, signalling to let it go. Fred leaned back in his chair, the teasing edge gone from his demeanour.

George broke the silence, tilting his head to read the title of the book. “Not exactly the first thing I’d grab for this topic. Why this one?”

[y/n]’s voice steadied as she replied, “Most people wouldn’t think of it. It’s a collection of myths and fairytales, but two of the stories are about wizards who didn’t use wands. I’ve read it before, ‘Lights and Feathers: the heroes of Ancient Europe’.”

“Ancient Europe? Sounds like something Charlie would’ve loved growing up,” Fred’s interest piqued, as he grabbed the book from [y/n]’s hands and turned it around to look at the cover.

She glanced up, curious. Fred had a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. He used to be obsessed with stuff like this,” he continued, his eyes far away, glancing at a memory. “Myths, legends, stories about magical creatures, specially in Europe. He practically lived in them when we were kids.”

“Charlie was your favourite, wasn’t he?” George grinned.

Fred didn’t hesitate. “As a kid, yeah. He was the coolest. But now?” He smirked. “My favourite brother is the one who never got born.”

George burst out laughing, earning a sharp glare from Madam Pince across the room. He quickly covered his mouth, muffling his laughter as Fred grinned triumphantly.

“You’re awful,” George said, still chuckling.

“I try,” Fred replied, his tone light. He glanced at [y/n], who was now smiling faintly, the tension from earlier easing. “So, let’s hear about these wandless wizards of yours.”

[y/n] nodded, flipping to the first marked page. As she began to explain the stories, her voice grew more confident, and the three of them leaned in, ready to delve into the peculiar world of wizarding legends.

For the next three hours, the trio was immersed in the stories from Lights and Feathers: The Heroes of Ancient Europe. The myths were as enchanting as they were peculiar, detailing feats of magic performed without wands: a wizard who commanded storms with only his voice, a healer who mended broken bones with the touch of her hands, and a peculiar alchemist who brewed potions without any visible magical aid. The twins occasionally interrupted with humorous commentary, pointing out how such abilities could make for legendary pranks, while [y/n] meticulously jotted down notes. They combed through the text, debating which details might appeal to Umbridge’s overly critical eye and which were too fantastical to be believed. By the end, the table was cluttered with pages of her elegant handwriting, yet the twins hadn’t so much as picked up a quill.

Satisfied with her work, [y/n] leaned back, stretching her fingers as she smiled at her notes. “Thanks for your help,” she said, her tone warm despite the long hours. “Even if I can only use a fraction of what we went over, this will at least make for a decent start.”

Fred, who had been idly flipping through another section of the book, glanced up and smirked. “Glad we could lend our expertise. Not every day a Malfoy thanks us, though.”

“Or anyone,” George added with a wink.

[y/n] rolled her eyes but chuckled. “Well, I do appreciate it. The stories you remembered from your brothers really added depth, even if I couldn’t use half of it.”

Fred’s gaze lingered on her as she spoke. Without her Slytherin tie or the dramatic robe trimmed with satin and fur she wore that dreadful night, she looked almost… normal. The brownish dress she wore was simple, the short sleeves revealing arms that moved with a quiet grace as she gathered her notes. But Fred noticed more than her clothes; her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, were slightly sunken, and though she smiled while discussing her plans for the essay, there was a lingering shadow of sadness in her expression—a face that had cried far too much recently.

She caught his stare and tilted her head. “What?”

Fred quickly masked his thoughts with a grin. “Just thinking how you might make the front page of The Daily Prophet if anyone saw you laughing with us.” [y/n] laughed softly, though there was a slight edge to it. Fred leaned forward, “Can’t imagine what would happen if your dear brother found out.”

For a brief moment, her smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. “Draco wouldn’t care,” she said, brushing it off. “He’s too busy trying to outshine a certain Boy Who Lived.”

George, sensing the slight tension, leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Well, since we’ve gathered enough arguments for pinky-trouble, shall we call it a successful study session?”

[y/n] nodded, neatly stacking her notes. “I’d say so. I think we’ve done enough damage to Umbridge’s peace of mind for one day.”

“Music to our ears,” Fred quipped, standing and stretching as well. “Anything else, or are we officially free of scholarly obligations?”

“No, we’re done,” she said, getting up. They followed. “Thanks again. I’ll take it from here.”

As they left the library together, Fred couldn’t help but glance at her one more time. She walked with purpose, her stack of notes held firmly in her hands, and though she’d brushed off his earlier remark, he wondered how deep the cracks in her confidence ran—and if they were anything like the cracks in the pristine Malfoy facade she so carefully maintained.

[thimbleandakiss]

Chapter six of my Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader longfic, Serpents and Cinnamon, "Powder Trip," Is out now!

Based off my one-shot Christmas Colors